7 and a half Cents
by breezysmooth
Summary: She tried thinking of a possible conversation starter. "Oh hi, I fell in love with your voice when I was fourteen." Didn't cut it. Threeshot.
1. Beginner

**A/N: Okay guys, this is my first ever fanfic so if you wanna go hard on me go ahead. So buckle up and R&R.**

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters. If I did, they would have won Regional's (Oral Intensity? WTF?) I do own the Beginners Guide to Creative Writing though, and Ms. Patterson.

_**Chapter 1: Beginner**_

"_Being a writer is taxing, as such. He or she is to cut, to chop, to skin, the English vocabulary and to fry, simmer, toast sentences until they are verbally pleasing and heart-moving. Alas, writing in that manner is akin to being an ill-tempered French cook."- Beginners Guide to Creative Writing._

It had all started with a lesson in third grade.

Ms. Patterson who taught English gave her class an assignment one day, to which the whole class groaned. Except for her, her with her billion-watt smile and her hand that shot up so fast it hurt.

"Ms. Patterson!" A sing-song voice called out. Behind her desk, Noah sniggered. "Even when she talks she's exercising her vocal chords." He murmured behind her back, coughing loudly to cover it up. She pretended to ignore him.

"Yes?" The teacher had enquired, with what Rachel would then remember with a benevolent tone. Also, she would understand later on, with a tinge of exasperation.

"Will we be able to write _anything_ we want?" She asked sweetly. (That was what she learnt; her Daddies told her that if she was very sweet she could get anything she wanted. Anything.)

"No, sweetie." Her billion-watt smile dimmed for all of a second. (Almost anything, anyways.) "It has to be a person you admire." She pursed her lips in confusion. She admired… herself. Her daddies, and Barbara Streisand. But, nothing, nothing held a candle to the person she had in her mind.

"Well…" She uttered after much thinking. "Can I write about my mom?"

She swallowed the blank stares and silence from her teacher and the kids around her with pride; it was not rare that she would get the same thing from her Daddies' friends, the therapist, everybody else. They just didn't understand.

"Can I?"

The teacher had stared at her, long and hard before giving her a small nod and a furtive sigh. "I-I guess so, dear."

The next day she handed in her assignment, bright-eyed and hopeful, and smiling even wider, she left. Afterwards, Rachel got her first ever slushie from Noah Puckerman, and had to call her Daddies all the way from work to get a new pair of clothes. She shook her head that day, through her tears, they just didn't understand.

* * *

_I won't tell you _

_That I love you_

_Kiss or hug you_

_Cause I'm bluffin' with my muffin_

_I'm not lyin'

* * *

_

The day after that, she was glum and snapped even at Daddies in the morning, but at the prospect of English class her spirits lifted in tentative hope.

Imagine her disappointment when she received a frowning face and an urgently scribbled '_See Me_' on her carefully written homework. Her brow scrunched up in confusion… she stayed up the whole of the previous night, looking up pretty words in the dictionary to suit her mother, even past eight. There was no reason for her English teacher to give her such low marks.

"Ms. Patterson?" She asked at the teacher's desk.

"Yes?... oh, Rachel." Her teacher's face softened upon looking at her wounded look. She gently pried the piece of paper the girl was clutching in her hands, and scanned it once again. "Dear, I think we need to go outside." A caring hand led her back out of the door, shooting a warning look to the class.

Rachel accepted the tissue given to her readily, sniffling pathetically. She swallowed a big gust of air, an indication that she was going to start ranting.

"Th-there's n-n-no reason that you'd give me a D, Ms. Patterson, because my Daddies tell me that if I have to get into Julliard, I must have really good grades, and to do that I need all As, and this D isn't helping and this is about my mom, so I hardly know her and-"

"Rachel, honey…" She murmured gently, running her hands soothingly on the whimpering frame's arms. "I'm so sorry… but this just wasn't…" She trailed off, dazed by her situation, and the soulful eyes staring back at her painfully. She looked away, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Just wasn't realistic."

Rachel did not even try to mask the tears as they fell, her heart following suit. Suddenly her nostrils flared in indignation, and she opened her mouth to spew in anger, but they closed in shame. Her shoulders slumped, as if defeated, and sniffled once again.

Her English teacher considered the child quite thick-skinned to insults hurled by the younger boys in her class, headstrong and vibrant, lighting up the whole class with her smile. But at this moment, with her back facing the white-washed school wall and on the verge of tears, the motherless girl looked hopelessly broken.

Maybe it was her hardwired maternal instinct, -or her distinct and sudden need to get away- but suddenly the woman remembered a book she received when she was much younger, something that she could say changed her life… and something she was sure the only way she could help the little girl.

* * *

"_The Beginners Guide to Creative Writing."_

"_Oh." A silence. More like a pause. "Ms. Patterson?"_

"_Yes, Rachel?"_

"_Why do I need this book?"_

"_It's very special. It helped me when I used to feel sad. It still does. When my parents fought, I used to run to my room and to just read this book. My tears dried up instantly."_

"_Oh. So it's a funny book?"_

"_Something like that. But it has big words that you might not understan-"_

"_I know big words. Even if I don't I can look them up in the dictionary."_

"_Of course, Rachel. But don't you ever lose this book. It's very special and important to me."_

"_Yes, Ms. Patterson."

* * *

_

Ms. Patterson was absolutely correct, of course.

She read the book like it was the Bible, memorizing the examples and verses inside by heart, murmuring them when she was exhausted to keep herself awake, writing out stories when she was especially bored.

Whenever she would feel sad, she would fetch herself a cup of water (there is a thin line between thirst and sadness) and sit down with the thick-covered book. Especially in the darkest of the nights, when she would feel the ghost of a mother's embrace, and wonder for the thousandth time how she would have looked like.

Sometimes, sometimes she would close her eyes and believe for a second her mother's voice was lulling her to sleep, soft and deep and soothing. When she would almost feel her hands brushing her hair, the tears will start pouring down mercilessly, staining the yellowed pages on her lap.

"_As a writer, your favourite and most menial task should be to feel. To feel a lover' loving embrace, cry as if you have just lost your Dalmatian, to giggle as if the Sun is shining bright outside your porch. If you have managed to feel, then you are one step closer to writing."

* * *

_

It was the sound of his voice that had made her start writing.

Honestly, it was rather clichéd, and her lips would tug upwards later on at the thought, but she never really comprehended the power of writing until she heard him. Rachel Berry never knew who this 'he' was, was he a reincarnation of the ghost voice that lulled her to sleep every night, or was he merely a janitor doing his rounds in the middle of noon?

All she understood that the voice pulling to her was a man's, (deep, masculine, powerful and yet shaky at the same time, something so perfect she wanted to cry) crooning a tune she recognized instantly.

She had been walking down an empty corridor late at school, humming quietly to her parents' car when she crossed the choir room and heard music wafting out from the doors. She stopped, intrigued, stepping closer to the door. She knew that eavesdropping was not very polite, but she really did not care then and she needed to know. She strained her ears, pressing them against the wooden surface.

His voice flowed like poetry, ribbons of ink so intricately placed on translucent paper, his pitch that spoke more volumes than the deepest of oceans, and leaning against the only thing that separated her from that mysterious voice, Rachel trembled. No one made her feel like this before.

And then he reached to the crescendo (when she felt higher than the uttermost tip of a star) and as smoothly as it had begun, it ended. Rachel stood, stunned beyond recognition. For a moment she stood there dumbly, but in a flash she ran outside, her parents' car honking out to her incessantly.

Later that day, she huddled up in her room, barely speaking and shaking. Because she had no other choice, (because she knew that no song would compare to what she felt, no lyrics or rhythm could match the beating of her heart) she wrote, hoping the words she used to describe could bring _his_ voice justice.

From that day on, his voice would snake into her dreams, dark and breathtaking and so fragile that she woke up with wetness on her cheeks, and lips tasting of salt.

* * *

"_A fickle thing among writers- It is thorny, vile and yet beautiful adorned like a velvet rose, as a writer you shall attempt to master the torrent of emotions that pour out of a human being's heart when they are in love, and somehow communicate it to the reader. In other words, to write romance." – The Beginner's Guide to Creative Writing._

It was ironically in the same corridor (by the very same choir room) where she stood gawking at the wall.

Well, it was not exactly the wall that she was staring at, but what most of student body passing her thought so, as she stood frozen in time, unwilling and unable to understand. She was a delicate statue, ignoring petulantly the stares and whispers flowing through the sea of students that dodged her, lips still partly apart in barely concealed shock.

She looked like she had seen a ghost, her face papery white and ready to tear at the seams. Not that it was far from the truth, actually. She had been walking down from the girl's bathroom, freshly changed from her previous slushied form when a wisp of his voice caught her ear, a low hum that sighed past her earlobe.

She knew she was not hearing things, she simply knew it. (If she was he would not be singing George Michael under his breath, she was sure of it.) And now, she knew that her mysterious voice was indeed not a janitor but an avid George Michael fan. And he was real.

She scrunched up her eyes in defiance, she will not cry in the middle of school, with everybody to see her, with the Cheerios and Finn- she breathed in and out, her yoga lessons finally doing her some good.

* * *

"_Noah?" Her voice was much squeakier than she wanted it to turn out to be. He pretended to not hear her, emptying his books while eyes glued to his PSP._

"_Noah?" She was more persistent now, slightly irritated._

"_Huh?" He glared at her. "You called, Berry?" _

"_Yes." She scowled, Puckerman was a sickening imbecile, despite his amazingly muscled arms- she shook her head, pointing. "Could you just tell me who that is?"_

_He eyed the slushie in his hand suspiciously, then at the teacher, and smirked to her. "Sure, freak." He emptied the contents onto her face, letting out a little chuckle as she stood there speechless._

_He strode out smugly. "Mr. Schuester. He's in Beginners' Spanish class." He called over his shoulder, feeling slightly guilty._

_

* * *

_

In a moment of divine revelation, in which she understood that the world was unfair and ironic in so many ways, it all made sense. It, when she was convinced it was stable for all of a second, crumbled and withered into pieces that dusted hopelessly at her feet, as she heard Mr. Shcuester sing as if his life depended on it.


	2. Intermediate

**A/N: Thank you thank you thank you thank you soooo much for your reviews! I really appreciate it. This chapter is dedicated to ****WistfulWatcher****, ****YoungWriter11****, ****ChristyZ**** and ****findingthewayhome****, you guys rock more than Banana Cake!**

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* * *

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**Chapter 2: Intermediate.**

"_Tragedy is writing itself, the masters of ancient such as Sophocles and Aeschylus figured out the best manner to please a crowd is through misery. Somber, but effective nonetheless, as a writer you should know how to make the reader's heart bleed and shatter alongside with your characters." _– The Intermediate Guide to Creative Writing.

A little voice told her to run flailing out of the door.

Another told her to get a grip, Berry, and to rationalize. Even a performer as herself was not impulsive, and… (She reined in a throat-tearing sob here) even if she just realized that she found something that-

She really could not help sobbing here, and before she knew it, she sunk her knees into the cold floor, wincing and feeling lower than the scum of the earth, a million accusations flying past in her head. So fast that she could not categorize them and file them for later use, so cutting that it hurt more than the majestic thrill of his voice.

How could she? How could she so naively give her whole heart, most of her soul to- a teacher, a stranger, an unknown. _You are disgusting, Rachel Berry. Absolutely appalling. You are worth no more than those two dollar costumes that the Cheerios wear. You have the morals of Sue Sylvester-_

"Rachel?"

It was unfair, so very unfair that she was nearly choking in her own misery. So much so that she did not hear his footsteps, his warm hand on her shoulder, and the concerned tone of his kindly voice.

She flinched, because that was not how his voice was supposed to sound like, it was supposed to be outraged and weirded out and… he just might be talking right then.

"-re you okay, Rachel? You look like you've seen a ghost." She suppressed a bitter chuckle, quickly wiping the tears off her face.

"I…" She wanted to talk, ask him and tell him about herself so badly, but the words clogged up at her gullet, refusing to come out. She straightened herself, leaning her head against the piano's stool. She noticed the intense –worried- gaze that focused on her.

"I-I'm fine, Mr. Schuester." She reassured, slightly sniffling. She stiffened when she heard his body slide next to her on the floor, his breath exhaling heavily.

She thought of different ways to break the silence. Most of them were (in example) "Hello, Mr. Schuester, I fell in love with your voice when I was fourteen, by the way." Or "You know, Mr. Schuester, I dream about you every night without even knowing who you were." No, she decided, she must adopt a better method.

"I heard you singing when you were in seventh grade." Her eyes bug out involuntarily, because she definitely did not expect to hear that. "The Ohio show choir auditions. You were amazing."

She ignored the sudden hiccupping of her heart, and she feels like a terribly lovesick puppy when she understands how much she appreciated that.

"The auditions? You were there?"

"Yeah, it reminded me of my Glee days back in the 90s." He let out a wistful chuckle. "We hit Nationals that time, and won." She brings herself to look at him then, and she sees his lips quirking into a ghost-smile, his hair a shock of curls, and his liquidized jade eyes, with a trace of happiness in them. A fragile smile graced her face, as she imagined Mr. Schuester as a shy sixteen year old boy.

She suddenly feels very sixteen, which (as well as the hard fact that even if you were sweet you don't really get everything you want) sent her heart lurching downwards.

An idea blinded her temporarily, not really a light bulb switched on, but more of a lightning bolt that stroke through her conscious. "Mr. Schuester?"

"Yeah?" She swallowed in a big gust of air, an effort to gather her courage, and spoke. "Well, Mr. Schuester. Won't it hurt if you bring Glee club back?"

She rushed to explain the details of her plan, and how eventually (with his guidance, of course) they might stand a chance to win Sectional's, Regional's, or even National's. His eyes glinted as he listened to her animated chatting, and he stays that way until he returned back home in thought.

(He bumped her shoulder on Friday on her way to English class, and said "yes"; - the accomplished tone of his voice kept her smiling faintly the whole weekend.)

* * *

_Our hopes and expectations_

_Black holes and revelations_

_Hold you in my arms_

_I just wanted to hold_

_You in my arms_

_

* * *

_

She knew she could never have him.

That made it worse, but at the same time that was so unimaginably comforting. Some wise being once said that _'love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within'._ Whoever that person was, he or she was undeniably correct. When she signed up for Glee club, she knew exactly the pandemonium that would ensue afterwards, but –oh- the pleasure of seeing him, seeing him sing and teach and to learn from him was too great for her to be unselfish.

Everyone else was insignificant; a cloudy image that singed her memories, whereas his bronze hair and his emerald eyes and his glassy voice lit her mind up in fire. She was driven by her need to perform better than her best, to sing louder and to dance faster, to do anything to keep his attention on her.

But that was never enough, and she had to resort to writing- again- to quench her thirst for this (new, sickening, beautiful) feeling. She had no idea what it was; in the dark hours of her bedroom lust would mask itself as infatuation, which would transcend to love.

So, while trying her best to ignore this… emotion (whatever it was) she wrote and wrote, her fingers moving out of their volition, spelling out secrets that her heart refused to tell her directly, and so addictive that at times she stayed up the whole night, sitting on her pink bedroom sheets, pen feverishly scribbling on paper.

That would explain why she was half-dead in the mornings, and why she had to apply so much of make-up for her face. It also might explain why she was dumbfounded when she heard Finn Hudson sing.

* * *

_Have you ever liked someone so much you just wanna lock yourself in your room, turn on sad music and cry?_

_

* * *

_

Finn was never really a problem.

Until of course, he decided to join Glee club and wow her speechless with his voice and his smile. Her pulse accelerated when she heard him sing, and she glowered then because only Mr. Schuester made her feel that way, (she crossed her arms here, because she did not feel attracted to that dimwit of a football player, not at all) and she stormed out, true to her diva fashion. _(Fellow glee clubbers, it would be an honor to show you how a real storm out is done…)_

Later that day she would nestle herself in between her two favorite items: sugar-free honeyed peach tea and her _Beginner's Guide to Creative Writing_, and while she sipped on her tea she would ponder on him.

Finn, in short, was a good distraction, (she was getting too many inappropriate thoughts about her Spanish teacher that she should not have) and he seemed nice enough to listen to her. But, as the day progressed she found herself thinking more and more about his cute dimples, and the way his lip quirks when he is around her.

"_Never trust anyone but yourself when you write. Ask others only to modify the clothing, not to change the whole fashion."

* * *

_

She almost died the day she lost her notebook and The Book.

Alright, even if she was not prone to over-exaggeration the truth would have not strayed far from that definition. It was more of a panic attack, actually. The Apocalypse had nothing on the Future without the Book.

She had frighteningly become so attached to her writing that it meant as much as –god forbid- losing her voice. Her breath became ragged, as she let out a noise something in between a shriek and a gasp, and her knuckles whitened so much it looked like somebody dropped bleach onto her fingers.

This was obviously wrong; her Books must have been wedged in between some obscure place in her bedroom while she was asleep. But she gutted her whole room, turned her bed upside down, frantically forced open her drawers and reorganized her immaculate system into a maelstrom of glitter and pink.

Nothing. She sunk onto her knees sniffling and pulling out her ponytail wretchedly. Nothing at all. She had lost the will to live, at this point.

* * *

The next day at English Class, she still refused to talk to anybody, glaring fiercely at the wall and at anyone that dared to look at her. Imagine her pure wrath when her head was bonked by a paper ball, and while shooting daggers at him she read it.

_Hell hath no fury such as Man Hands' scorn. _A direct insult. Noah was going to be man-slaughtered.

_Shut it, Puckerman. Or else you are dead meat by the end of this hour._ She threw it with all the anger she could muster, smiling sweetly when it hit his nose. He stuck his tongue out at her. _(_**Pig**_.)_

_What's wrong, Berry? Woke up realising your skirts don't attract Finn anymore?_

She huffed, denying the smile that almost crept up her face.

"Ms. Berry! Can you tell me the difference between 'to foreshadow' and 'to forewarn'?" Her eyes widened comically.

* * *

"Uh…" She stammered, staring at Mr. Schuester wild-eyed. "You asked me to stay?"_(__I've never noticed this before because he's always trying to destroy my career, but Mr. Schue has really pretty eyes.)_

He sighed, and she tried (tried so incredibly hard) to look anywhere but at his lips, but she failed. She rubbed her arms self-consciously, opening her mouth to speak.

"Mr. Schue if this is about _Carbaret_, I already told you I'm incredibly sorry about leaving Glee club, it was childish, and I even relinquished my lead yesterday-"

"Rachel." His voice was warm and forgiving again, and it reminded her of hot chocolate with pink sprinkles and marshmallows on top- the way her Daddies make it. She smiled faintly at the memory. "It's not about that; I just wanted to give you something."

He scrunched his brow, much like when he was giving news to Glee club – ominous, ominous news- but his lips held a pleasant quirk. "Give me a minute," He murmured, fetching something from a chair.

Rachel felt the dread creeping up her spine, and with a sickening lurch of her stomach she suddenly _knew_. Her eyes expanded, and she clutched her file desperately because he was not about to give her what she think it is, and it certainly does not involve the 'B' word. Oh no, oh no no no no-

"I'm assuming you left this at rehearsals yesterday." He had this pleased tone in his voice, and even though she was supposed to lo- thank him she wanted to rip his throat apart. The two Books' hard-bound warmth found themselves in her palms (her jaws locked and there was a high pitch frequency in her ears.)

She said nothing, just staring at him as if he were a living corpse.

"D-did you read them?"

"Yes." He admitted sheepishly, running a palm at the back of his neck. He looked up. "You have a knack for writing, Rach."

"R-really?" Her eyelashes fluttered upwards in surprise.

"Really." He assured, with a bone-melting grin. "Especially the parts with Hazel."

She knew at that moment she was going to die.

* * *

**Dun dun dunnnnnnn…. And yes I do love cliffhangers, what makes you ask?**


	3. Advanced

Sorry for updating so late! But to make you happy I wrote double the amount, so this chappie is a long one. And I'm very happy with this chapter, so please R&R! And thank you, ChristyZ and Wistful Watcher especially for reviewing my writing. You type of people make me want to jump around dizzily.

Disclaimer: Let's face it. If I had Glee it would have been a lot worse.

* * *

Chapter 3: Advanced

_"Shock is primal instinct. There is shock when prey is attacked by predator, and this progressed into Man until he began to associate this with other beings and flowed naturally into his writings. Shock, when the antelope is speared down by a hunter. Shock, when Man realises the horror of the dead and blood. Shock, when the earliest of Man realized what love was." – The Advanced Guide to Writing_

The world froze.

Well, except for her erratic breathing and her stupid-always-pumping-heart, and his ever-searching eyes (she might kill herself by looking at his eyes) and his hand on her quaking shoulder, and his tiny vibrating green veins on the back of his palm- where was she? Right, the world was frozen.

He said her name, but she could not hear him, her heart was far away, her mind too- berating her heart, analyzing the details, calculating the consequences. And frankly, it seemed like her heart did not seem to care, sure it quivered and panicked and felt like it ran a mile, but it seemed to be telling her: _Rachel Berry, you have released a thousand-pound burden from your shoulders. You have nothing to be worried about._

Right, her mind told her. Not worry about Hazel, the very same Hazel that wore short skirts, sang as if she thought she were in love (in love with her teacher-) got slushied everyday- in short, a mini-Rachel in all her literary glory. Yeah, not worry about _that_ Hazel.

"Rachel… you have to stop spacing out like this." There was another person in the room- she remembered that, yes.

She ignored his statement, staring at him hard and square in the eye. "What did you find out?" She slightly jumped at the sound of her own voice, she had no idea it could get so fierce.

He looked taken aback, but his shoulders stiffened. "Hazel…" He paused, searching for words. "Is a lot like you." He half-smiled, apparently hoping what he said would be adequate.`

It wasn't. She stared at him harder. He exhaled through his mouth. "She likes… strawberry fro-yo? She has a collection Mary Jane shoes, she obsesses over every tiny detail of her locker, she judges people by their mannerisms instead of appearances-"

She sighed, almost deflating in relief. "First chapter." Thank goodness.

"Yeah." He agreed, slightly confused. "Why'd you want to know?"

She smiled then, her trademark megawatt smile that blinded the victim so much they forgot what happened. "Nothing, Mr. Schuester. Thank you."

Noah had called it a super-power, she hoped it worked. "You're welcome." But he stared at her, unconvinced. "Where did you get the book anyway?" She cursed internally, he better not be immune. She adjusted the knob slightly, making sure the brightness of the smile was now enough to bleach the sky. "Uh… my notebook? Oh I just bought it at the bookstore-"

"No, the other book." He chuckled, pointing to the guide that was pressed firmly against her belly. She gritted her teeth. Did this man have Kryptonite?

"It was a gift." She blurted out, ready to slap herself. "From my Bubbe."

"Oh?" His brow scrunched.

"Yeah..." She trailed off. Suddenly the marble tiles on the floor were very appealing. Each crack reminded her about the unattainable goal of perfection, and did those lines make up a zebra? He made an awkward noise. She could hear his footsteps shuffling to the steps, and she wordlessly followed.

He sat on them, rubbing his knuckles together roughly. She sat beside him, tight-lipped and afraid to talk. He inaudibly sighed, looked at her and grinned. "You really do make a good writer."

She scoffed. "Please, my grammar and structure are as professional as Principal Figgins singing in the shower."

He made a distasteful sound. "You heard him?" She shuddered, imagining the scenario.

"No." She insisted, mortified. She saw the smile spreading across his face, and let out a giggle. "Coach Sylvester isn't better, either." She added quietly, suppressing a smirk.

His head snapped to hers. "She bathes?" She couldn't take it, the laughter burst out of her like a pipe; flowing incessantly (she had never been so relieved to laugh before).

He joined in afterwards, and for a moment in her life she felt like she was five again: the world was filled with singing competitions that she could get first place in, plus pink ponies and rainbows were just around the corner, alongside her Daddies.

They talk aimlessly the whole afternoon, sitting on the steps, her smile appearing so often it hurt her cheeks.

(Afterwards she thinks it's the first time she ever regretted leaving school.)

* * *

_Handle bars, and then I let go, let go for anyone_

_Take me in, and throw out my heart and get a new one_

_Next thing we're touching_

_You look at me- it's like you hit me with lightning._

_

* * *

_

The world started functioning properly.

Maybe a gear was not oiled properly, or it just needed a little kick, but now she realized that it was working, and it was working great.

He looked at her and talked to her, and that was enough. She could ignore the distinct need to grab a knife when Ms. Pillsbury was around, or the guilt and something else that slid down beneath her ribcage when he smiled at her.

So it was no surprise that she came to look forward to the visits she paid (deliberately or not, she still did not know) him, because she lov- liked the way his whole body lights up when he laughed, the way his shoulders relaxed when he talked about Glee club when he was younger, the glimmer that was in his eye when he talked about his mentor.

She knew that what he was revealing to her was deeply personal, something he would never tell any other normal student –her whole body flushed, melting at the edges- so she repaid the favour by telling him about her writing, how it came about from her essay in third grade on the person she admired the most.

She scowled at him when he laughed outright, his eyes sparing her some sympathy.

"It's not funny, Mr. Schue. I was genuinely hurt." Her eyes sparkled, her lips forming a mock-pout. "It took me loads of thinking before deciding on what my mother could be like. Not many kids have show-choir princesses as mothers, I'll have you know."

He chuckled again, arching backwards in sloth. "You always were the exception. But, I have to admit, I'm glad."

"My writing isn't that good." She started, protesting weakly, twisting the edges of her skirt nervously.

"Yes it is, Rach. One day, I'll be seeing you winning Tony Awards and writing bestselling novels in no time."

She snorted, but felt the gratitude sting her eyelids, and she turned away, gulping. She felt him sigh behind her shoulders, and she cleared her throat. She turned to look at him, her face broken into a smile. It was not the trademark blinding-Berry smile; it was the pure-as-gem Rachel smile that only her Daddies –and now him- had seen.

"Thank you." She said simply.

His face matched hers. "I'm your biggest fan, Rachel."

_"Love, and therefore writing is made by God. Ignore it and you will suffer as you cannot imagine."_

_

* * *

_

She burst into the auditorium one afternoon, panicked and out of her mind.

"Raspberry Breeze." She announced to him, her eyes smoky and disconcerting.

His eyebrows shot to above his hairline. "What?"

"Raspberry Breeze, Tyler hit me with Raspberry Breeze." She could still smell it in her hair. She blanched. "That's just wrong, Mr. Schue."

"It... is?"

"It is. Tyler never hits me with a Raspberry Breeze facial. His call is Lima Lemon-Lime. Krafosky hits me with Raspberry Breeze. Puckerman hits me with Blueberry Bur-"

"Wait a minute, didn't I send those boys to detention for a month?"

She huffed exasperatedly, as if she were explaining to a five year old. "No Will, you don't expect them to have detention in between classes." She stopped abruptly, cheeks inflaming at her error. _Idiotidiotidiotidiotidiot. _

_Idiotidiotidiotidiotidiotidio- _He seemed to be grinning. Why was he grinning?

"Its fine, Rachel, it's an easy slip." He nodded. "Continue- I need to know how severely I can punish them."

Her eyes lit up with a newfound fire. "I think you need to fail them repeatedly to give them enough detention, Mr. Schue."

He smirked. "As long as you can get me my latte again, I think I'll be good."

* * *

Then it all went to hell.

She was pretty sure she was not supposed to see it (as Rachel the student) but Rachel the neglected, lovesick, so **angry** best friend did not seem to mind.

It was wrong, sick, disturbing, twisted, mortifying, appalling... insert whatever insulting adjective Rachel can think of right here. Because she knew, the moment she heard him sing, that his lips should fall on her, not that other woman. He should smile lovingly and look in adoration at her face, not that woman. He should hug _her_ and kiss_ her_ hair- her stomach acidized and her legs turned into jell-o that was clearly not refrigerated.

The little voice perched itself onto her shoulder once again, a taunting tone that sounded suspiciously like Suzy Pepper: "_You and I are the same, Rachel._ _You set yourself for heartbreak because you think you're unworthy of being loved."_

It hurt, it pained so much- as if there was this deep chasm in her heart that sucked the goodness of her world into it, which throbbed and pulsed solely to remind her of her failures. Her eyes burned, they scalded, because they saw the same man that her heart was in love with, and who her head was constantly revolving around- and here her own eyes betrayed her with what they saw.

Her eyes saw him kissing Ms. Pillsbury as if he loved her, but her heart and head denied it vehemently. Her eyes saw the softness in his gaze, but her chest tightened and her brain screamed to itself silently. Her eyes saw his fingers on her hips- her legs drove her out of the accursed place, her heart spilling over and her brain finally having enough.

The image haunted her as she rushed, tear-streaked through the hallways, forever on pause-rewind-replay and never stopping completely, frozen at the parts that hurt most and with a Pepper voiceover mocking her.

"_Unworthy of being loved, unworthy of being loved, unworthy of being loved, unworthy of being loved, unworthy-"_

"Watch it!" She crashed into the heavy and uncomfortable presence of a very familiar boy... who was it?

"Nobody messes with the G-Man, all'rite?" Her gaze, previously watery and miserable, hardened.

"What did you say, Grubben?" Her voice was low, dangerous. Grubben gave her a shit-eating grin.

"Nothing, gorgeous..." He trailed off, something queasy in his smile. Before she knew it, the cold and humiliating aroma of frozen raspberries slammed her face, and she stood with her jaw unhinged.

"_Unworthy of..."_ She will not. She could not. She should not.

She had enough of this.

Something inside her shattered, and her eyes chilled into cold pellets of brown. With a frenzied vigor thought she never possessed, she shoved him down to the floor, panting and feeling the hot rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

She gripped his lapels and drilled her eyes on him as if she were crazed, untamed and dark and hurt enragement lurking in her eyes. She stood there, as the rest of the student body fell into an awed hush, but nothing ceased the blood wailing in her ears and the churning of her heart.

The world blurred as she wondered if she was capable of killing another human being.

But noticed the genuine fear and desperation in the boy's eyes, and she reluctantly slackened her vice-grip from his collar. She stepped back as she returned from delirium, flinching as if she was branded.

She staggered to the bathroom, ignoring the waves of faces watching her.

"I..." She croaked, her head spinning around violently, spots forming at the back of her eyelids.

"I have to go."

And she ran.

* * *

Her writing dulled.

The characters charred beneath her fingertips, they broke into lifeless letters, her words a meaningless jumble. The paper was pale, (so pale and brittle) and each time she glanced upon them she flinched when she saw the word lov- the 'L' word.

This was not helpful because she read about it –and about that infuriating inhuman she did not want to name- each sentence in her diary. She compelled herself to read her writing, to see if the Muses would grace her with a spark, a fizzle, anything to see if she could write with her previous fervor. All she saw was even more things that fed the hollowness in her heart and made her even more disgusted with herself.

Had this Rachel been so lovesick and naïve? Had this Rachel been so unimaginably _stupid_ to give (that inhuman she was so angry at) all of her devotion and attention?

Her hands itched to scratch out the tiny hearts she drew around that _ohgodsohorribleuselessperson _who she still refused to name. Certainly not starting with a 'W' or ending with an 'R'.

This Rachel, she told herself convincingly, this Rachel was independent, strong-willed and armed with a heart cold enough to freeze hell over. This Rachel was no typical swooning schoolgirl who crushed immaturely on older boys, because that definitely was not the Rachel way.

The voice hissed into her ears that she has lost the spark in her eyes, the bounce in her step, the clichéd (but relieving) fluttering of her heart...

This Rachel started to sob.

* * *

"Mr. Schue?"

The shocked-out-of-your-mind act was becoming old. And that was saying something, because she could not count the amount of scenes she enacted where she (most chauvinistically) gasps dramatically and swoons carelessly to the floor, before being swept into the arms of a handsome (and most chauvinistic) man.

That was currently not the issue. What the current issue was that her Spanish teacher (on whom she inadvertently has-_had_ an infatuation with) was standing at her doorstep, with a hopeful smile and an apologetic gaze.

This was obviously wrong because she was exhausted and angry at him. But then she realized, through the cold air lashing at her doorstep, that she was hallucinating. She giggled hysterically, finally realizing that she had gone mad. That must be the reason, she was so in love with him she dreamt up intricate fantasies that he would actually arrive on her doorstep, ready to beg on his knees for her to come back.

"Rachel." His voice was soft, pleading. She gripped the door handle and smiled hollowly. This was going perfectly. He looked different, though she could not pinpoint what exactly.

"I'm sorry for doing this... I was so-I just want to apologize." Her tired eyes watched him intently, willing him to continue.

He ran his hand up his curls, sighing as if he were an aged man. "I knew it the instant you left the choir room, you haven't been answering my calls, you don't even _look_ at me at Glee or Spanish class-" Her mirage of a knight changed slowly into flesh-and-blood Mr. Schuester, and she felt the bile rise up her throat as she realized she wasn't dreaming.

This was turning into horrific reality, where Mr. Schuester hurt her heart so bad it refused to function properly, where she got discomforting stares from those around her, where she could feel the whispers flowing across the hallways piercing through her abdomen.

But he was here, why was he here, wasn't he supposed to be off enjoying the night with Ms. Pillsbury? She asked him this, but he just looked at her painfully and everything cleared.

"No." She felt like she could throw up and cry at the same time. "No, no no no no no no." This was a nightmare, an absolute nightmare because he could not possibly know-

"I brought you this." He brought a hardbound book from his back, holding it out to her. She barely managed to grasp it in her pale fingers, and just she could not take it anymore.

"The Intermediate and Advanced Guide to Creative Writing." He whispered through the waves of memories (of him) crashing through her conscious. Him laughing with her. Him singing as if his life depended on it. Him with his cheeks flushed heatedly, sparring with Coach Sylvester.

And she knew that, as she crashed into his arms with tears flying, she was going to faint. But he caught her. He held her because he felt sorry for what he as Mr. Schuester did to her, so he as Will her best friend was smoothing her hair and whispering comforts into her hair, promising never to leave her.

She would never forgive Mr. Schuester for what he did to her, she would still retain a heart of stone that cracked only at its center, and glower at jocks if they held a slushy in hand. She might never have her fairytale romance with him, or with anyone else for that matter.

But nothing mattered right now because she was with him.

* * *

By the way, the story isn't done yet. It has an epilogue (which I'm still writing) to satisfy my Rach/Will shipper feelings. But my writer feelings are feeling very happy, so lemme go and eat some ice-cream. :)


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